


welcome to the Ritz, sweetheart

by Saul



Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Callboy, Andrew's Swanky as Hell, M/M, Neil Isn't Paid Enough For This
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7647487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saul/pseuds/Saul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Andrew Minyard is a business tycoon and, for one reason or another, Neil Josten is his arm candy.</p><p>( Neil Josten, local callboy, doesn't bother asking why until it's far too late. )</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> originally based off Pretty Woman, but it took on a life of its own. thanks to the massive support from tumblr followers and all those who gave ideas for extensions!
> 
>  **warning** for heavily implied domestic and sexual abuse. cheers, everybody!

“Dress me in clothes like these, tell me to mingle, and you can’t complain about how people react.”

“The clothes have nothing to do with it.”

“The way you looked at me when I stepped out of the changing room begged to differ.”

“It was shocking to see you look like something other than a common call-boy.”

“A whore, you mean.” Silence. “If I wasn’t one, you wouldn’t have wanted to pick me up. Or are you going to deny responsibility for that, too.”

Silence.

“Yeah. Thought so. Figures.”

“If you aren’t going to listen to what I have to say,” the business tycoon with his pressed tuxedo and polished shoes and far too luxurious hair said, “then I have nothing to say.”

Neil, in a slimming black three-piece with a silk blue tie slightly askew, crossed his arms and redirected his annoyed stare out the limo’s tinted windows.

Nothing had even happened. People had gawked. People always gawked. People had whispered. People always whispered. That they did it over champagne in sparkling crystal and ball-gowns worth more than his apartment’s yearly rent didn’t change anything. They were people. Neil Josten was dressed to look good. Of course some would think to flirt. Hadn’t that been part of the point? _Look at me, I’m Andrew Minyard, yes, I am gay, why, is that a problem, I have enough in the bank to buy out a developing country, did you really think I couldn’t afford to clean up this street rat._

Neil was with him for the money. And the food. Free food was never bad.

And – alright. Gawking and whispering and being shown off wasn’t too new, though the locations were. His client getting pissy about it and pulling him out mid-party wasn’t so unusual, either. The fact Andrew Minyard preferred him covered head to toe and apparently didn’t want to work through his twisted up possessive tendencies with Neil pressed against his hotel wall, _that_ was new.

Neil was still figuring out how he felt about it.

It felt pretty dangerous. Andrew Minyard, billionaire that he was, felt very, very dangerous.

Self-preservation should have had Neil shut his mouth and do what Andrew said, not demand he hold up his end of the bargain and, weekend done, drive him home.

 _Back to  your pimp, you mean_ , Andrew had drawled.

 _Are we driving, or am I walking?_ Neil snapped.

He should’ve changed clothes before the limo rolled out. Andrew hadn’t really given him a chance in between yanking him away from Riko Moriyama and taking him to his car.

 _Mingle with everyone except him,_ Andrew had said, unusually tense. _I didn’t think I needed to say it._

_Why? Because he’s a sadist?_

_You don’t know the half of it._

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what kind of bed fellow Moriyama made, but Neil didn’t say that.

It took a while to drive from the good to the bad part of town. Neil spent it contemplating the passing scenery and then, fighting back dread, his expensive, shiny shoes. He was pretty sure they hadn’t been walked in before Andrew gave him them. It made his stomach curl.

Eventually, though, they rolled up to his apartment complex. People had to be staring from the windows, but it was a little late to care about that, and anyway, it wasn’t the first time Wesninski had a high roller showing up for one of his employees.

“I’ve a flight to Puerto Rico tomorrow,” Andrew told him as the limo almost, but didn’t quite, roll to a stop. Matt, the driver, was a good, normal guy; he and Andrew didn’t seem to get along, which made Neil wonder how he’d kept the job so long (he’d once expressed so to Matt, who had agreed with him), but then, Andrew held strange company. 

“So?” Neil replied, eyes out the window to the apartment’s red door. It was such an ugly brick building. After this job, maybe he’d finally have enough to move out. With the percentage his father pulled, he doubted it. “Bet you fry like an egg in the sun.”

Andrew didn’t deny it. “You always have something to say,” he said, which - here, in this neighborhood, in front of that door - made Neil freeze. That comment meant he’d crossed a line. That comment meant nothing good.

And yet when Andrew continued, it with just with, “I’ve an extra ticket. Kevin had a surprise meeting.”

Neil didn’t know why Andrew didn’t just date Kevin, but it probably had something to do with the fact Kevin was a success with money and dignity, while Neil was none of the above. Having Kevin on his arm would mean something serious. Neil? Not so much. 

(A trip to Puerto Rico rather than his dingy room and a week more of turning tricks.)

(That was tempting. That was really, really tempting.)

(But the red door was a damning shadow in the corner of his eye, and he was already going to get an earful about the clothes, never mind a missed curfew.)

“That’s nice.” Neil said, impressed with how unimpressed his own voice sounded. He couldn’t keep from swallowing, vaguely nervous, afterward. Oh well.

Andrew watched him.

His nerves grew worse. What if he kept him here?

He didn’t.

He shrugged and reached around Neil to open his door. “Fine. Until Friday.”

Neil climbed out before his legs betrayed him and locked up. One hand on the roof and one hand on the door, he leaned in to ask, “You’ll be back that soon? Some vacation.”

“It’s not vacation,” Andrew said, tone bored. Despite that, his eyes were locked on Neil’s.

Neil _huh_ ed, still not moving away. Andrew’s eyes dropped to his mouth. Feeling dangerous, reveling quietly in Andrew’s unpredictability and the thrill to follow at toeing a line,  he bit his lower lip as if he was thinking of something to say. Andrew’s pupils grew, though the rest of him didn’t  move.

Huh.

Maybe he wasn’t as keen on keeping Neil dressed as he acted.

Maybe if Neil leaned forward, he’d find more proof.

Maybe.

The door behind him creaked open, and the moment broke.

“Sounds as boring as the rest of your work,” he said, voice a little higher from almosts and maybes and the certainty that lay behind him. “See you Friday.”

Andrew didn’t reply. His eyes flitted over Neil’s shoulder to catch the man standing in the doorway, but Neil didn’t wait for his comment - he shut the door, turned on a heel, and went back to where he’d be for an age longer.

(Until Friday, at least.)

(His father was predictably unhappy about the clothes, but he liked the money and Neil not having to miss a day of work due to bruises or blood too much to tell him to cut ties.)

(It was fine.)

(It was just until Friday.)

 

* * *

 

Neil discovered a loophole in the bit about interacting with Riko. That was: as long as he did it from afar, it was no issue.

“Are red ties all he has?”

“By his word, they make him look fierce.”

“Like a kitten discovering its claws.”

“Or a teething puppy having a go at the new leather couch.”

“I’d agree, his bark’s much worse than his bite.”

“You should see the pathetic fools he regularly runs up trees. He can be scary on paper.”

“Really? The scariest thing I can see is his face. Near or far, one glance would send me running.”

Andrew’s mouth twitched.

As a woman in a low-cut, side-cut, cut-your-heart-out dress sidled up to extend a gloved hand to Andrew, Neil leaned away to hide his own grin in a glass of champagne.

(Sparkling cider, actually, but only Andrew, Neil and the bartender knew that.)

The mogul took the woman’s hand with practiced grace. He might have been known by his colleagues for a frigid demeanor and ruthless business strategy, but none would say he was stupid. There was a time and place for niceties, and the woman’s grandmother’s Congressional fund-raiser definitely qualified as one. Neil had spotted her slinking through the crowd, though she never stayed with any one man for long. Apparently, it was Andrew’s turn to hold her attention.

By the way Andrew’s arm slid around Neil’s back to nudge him closer and his smooth smile when the woman’s perfect eyebrows jumped up to her perfect, glossy hairline, Neil could tell Andrew was positively _thrilled_ about the opportunity.

He had to hand it to her: she recovered well, slipping easily into a discussion on the hostess’s (her grandmother’s, as she mentioned again) wine selection.

Neil gave her a mindless smile, relaxing pleasantly against Andrew’s side, but tuned out as the two compared notes on bottles dated from 1934.

Another man joined the duo. To the woman’s disappointment, he was far below her pay grade. To Neil’s delight, the new addition meant lulls in Andrew’s replies wherein he could lean even more into Andrew’s space and whisper in his ear:

“Ooh, don’t look now, but he’s glancing our way. I already feel kind of sick.”

Andrew didn’t react. That was fine. Neil was just getting started.

“His shoe’s got a scuff. I can see it from here. Really, I can, it’s a big, ugly… Oh, no, wait, that’s just what’s left of his dignity after showing up with hair like that.”

The woman turned to Andrew to include him back in the conversation. Andrew, responding smoothly, said something to make her laugh.

“Hey, do that again. He scowled so suddenly I thought his face might crack. Honestly, it would be an improvement. Do you think he has the mirrors in his house insured, in case they crack when he passes by? Or his stairs, in case they cave under the weight of his ego?”

She said another thing just in time to explain away Andrew’s mouth’s second upward twitch of the evening.

Neil, again, hid his grin in his cider.

That was when he discovered he had no cider left, which was a pity. Standing around looking pretty wasn’t as fun without good food or drink in hand.

(Being paid to stand around and look pretty was the best job he’d ever gotten, but after a few weeks of it, he’d grown greedy.)

The woman, surprisingly, was the first to notice. “Oh, do you need another glass? I’d recommend the Bordeaux 1934.”

On cue, Andrew chuckled.

Neil managed a convincing smile by virtue of years of lying to men and women alike about how much he enjoyed their company alone.

“If you’ll excuse us, Miss Reynolds,” his current company said (of whom he lied to much less than the others), “we’ll be right back.”

She had the grace to let them go, though she sent them a cat-like, knowing little smile before doing so. “Of course. Until later.”

The other man made a similar remark, of which Neil instantly forgot.

Andrew, meanwhile, linked their arms and moved parallel to the drink table. By virtue of who he was, those they ran into alternated between too intimidated and flustered to approach, and too eager and bumbling to create a conversational hook; both types cleared out of the way with little more than a look and flick of Andrew’s hand.

When attached to someone with that much power, standing around looking pretty had more perks than the food and drink. Neil was unashamed to say he basked in them all, here in this fairy tale world composed of the glittering elites that flitted about without responsibility or care.

Andrew found them a section of the white-pillared home that had enough breathing room for a breeze. The peace would last, Neil estimated, for all of three minutes.

Despite no longer needing to talk through a crowd, Andrew leaned close to say, “Are you going to spend all weekend waxing poetic about Riko Moriyama’s imperfections?”

“I could wax poetic on yours, but it’d be too easy.”

Andrew scoffed. Neil, glass nowhere near his face, grinned.

He realized a few things then. One: Neil’s back was against the wall, shoulder against a pillar. Two: Andrew’s body was quite close, angled open and obvious toward Neil’s. Three: neither of them were saying a thing, even though they’d used up one of their three politicking-free minutes.

Four, a realization Neil was most uncertain about what to do with: Andrew’s eyes kept straying to his mouth, and lower yet.

Habit had him flattening further against the wall, arms to his sides and limbs loose. He let his smile shrink, become intimate; his eyelashes fluttered.

He knew what he looked like. He looked easy. He was a green light, a clear go-ahead, every signal textbook perfect.

And yet, what Andrew did was ask: “What if I kissed you?”

That was not in the script.

But it wasn’t necessarily not in the script, since by the simple capitalistic rule of goods for services, Andrew (as the provider of the goods) wrote the script.

So Neil responded with, “What, you have to ask?”

Andrew liked snark. Andrew liked a fight.

Andrew did not, if the way his eyes snapped up to Neil’s, like that answer. Neil’s smile froze on his face, everything in him stilling, waiting and ready for a repercussion.

“You don’t really want me to,” he said.

Which. Neil was pretty sure, even as the script-writer, he was not allowed to say that.

He was no expert on being a customer - he’d never been a client, point in case - but he was an expert on being the service exchanged for goods, and that was a loud-and-clear _you aren’t appetizing, you aren’t doing your job right, you aren’t enough._

He tried to recover. He said, in his lowest, _hurry up and fuck me_ voice, “‘Course I do. Come on, I was just playing. You should kiss me.”

For a business tycoon, Andrew sure needed his hand held—

No. No, no, wait, Andrew was backing off. Shit, fuck.

“I want you to kiss me,” he tried, the desperate note not entirely faked.

Andrew, however, just shook his head and moved away. Back toward the crowd, away from Neil, away from their whatever-the-hell moment, leaving Neil to run through the exchange and wonder what in the world he’d done wrong. Maybe Andrew didn’t like easy access. Maybe he should’ve taken the lead. Maybe, maybe, _fuck_ , he was going to think about this all night, he could already see Andrew shutting down their contact, damn it,  _he could be so stupid._

The night wasn’t over yet. He could make up for it.

A good sign: Andrew waited for him to join his side before heading for the drink table and getting him another glass of sparkling cider.

Another good sign: Neil managed to make him almost-laugh by dragging Riko’s name through the dirt while Andrew was supposed to be pleasantly rubbing elbows.

Bad sign: Andrew didn’t really glance his way again, all the way to their driving to his hotel for the night.

Worst sign: at the hotel itself, he didn’t seem to want anything to do with Neil. He just wanted to actually, truly sleep.

Neil tried very hard not to panic.

He clung to fact that the next day when Andrew dropped him off, he said, “Until next weekend,” and he paid the full rate without argument.

It helped. Somewhat.

He found himself wishing they had kissed. But, then, that was one more regret of many.

 

* * *

 

Six years turning tricks in the same city meant more than a few souls on the block recognized Neil’s face. Of those, two handfuls had paid up for the dubious honor of being a regular.

Mac, a brick house with a chipped face and a dozen unattended mini-Macs scattered across Maryland, was a regular Neil’s back knew well. Mac, you see, had a taste for paintings. A first rate appreciator of fine arts, he liked his women inked and his men marked.

Wait. No. He didn’t like men at all.

That was why he saw Neil. Maybe he had an urge here and there, a twist in the loins he couldn’t control, but one look at Neil cleared that up. The only way he could stand looking twice, he claimed, was with Neil improved.

(If it needed to be said: his six-inch skinning knife did the improving.)

He’d been jostled from his usual Saturday night slot by Andrew _Did My Money Stutter_ Minyard. Happily, Neil hadn’t dealt with him in six weeks. In the interest of protecting Minyard and his mutual interests, his father had done a fine job of keeping Mac and his ilk off Neil’s tail. That couldn’t have been an easy feat given Minyard’s refusal to pick him up in anything less than a Maserati, but thus far, he’d managed.

So whoever it was that squealed on Neil’s pick up spot to Mac had better be on their way to China. Anywhere closer, and the Butcher’d have them swinging from the clock tower by their balls.

“I’m busy,” Neil repeated for what felt like the fiftieth time, the one-to-ten seconds he counted off to keep calm crumbling as Mac’s fingers dug tighter into his shoulder.

“Busy? Too busy for your favorite customer?” Cracked lips pulled back on yellowed teeth, brown eyes narrowing. “Bullshit. Who you seeing? Tell your old man I’ll pay double.”

Self-preservation begged Neil repeat what he had been repeating, a litaney that was about as safe as it would get. Unfortunately, as usual, his tongue ran away on him. “Yeah, sure. We both know you’d have to sell your girlfriend’s house to match even a quarter of what he’s paying.”

Mac’s eyes went wide.

Neil thought, _Why did I say that._

(He didn’t regret it.)

A backhand that cracked his head back to the wall tried to convince him to regret it. He felt his cheek catch and break on– right, right. His recent girlfriend had been suckered into an engagement. She’d last to the wedding and, Neil bet, be jilted right on the altar, plus one in the oven and minus one at her side. It was always the same with Mac. Always, always, time and fucking time again.

Usually he had enough sense to keep his violence in the dark, but the weeks away must have made him miss Neil something fierce because he wasted no time at all in backing him to the wall and shoving an arm across his throat.

He spat something about smart mouths and ugly boys in his face. Try as he might to rag doll, Neil felt cold metal on his stomach and flinched, whole body seizing up. That pleased Mac, at least, going by the switch from insults to, “See? You can’t’ve forgotten me.”

Neil’s mouth clenched shut so hard his teeth might’ve cracked.

Then: a car horn blared.

Mac’s head whipped around, the knife in his hand mercifully not jumping. A door opened and by the footsteps, a man approached; by Mac’s, “The fuck you wan–?” it wasn’t a local.

By blond hair, blue eyes and a suit the same price as a week’s worth of work, it was the person who was supposed to have Neil up against the wall.

Instead, Andrew Minyard had Mac by the throat. A foot stuck out there, and Mac tripped sideways, falling to Andrew’s level and into Andrew’s knee. The knife clattered to the side; air whooshed out of lungs with a sick crunch, followed by a gasping, wet cough.

Neil had never seen someone less than five feet tall take down a six foot plus that fast without a weapon (though he had, while he attended school, seen a girl kneecap their teacher for interrupting a fight, she’d been at least five-foot-one). It was impressive. It was maybe horrific, if Neil tried to imagine he didn’t have fucked up standards of violence.

“Name?” Andrew demanded, cool as water melted from the untouched peaks of Mt. Everest, or wherever it was that his sort got their water from.

Mac gurgled a response that was not his name.

Andrew gave him a kick in the ribs with his nice, pointy leather shoes.

He didn’t repeat the question, but Mac gasped it out. “Mac Willford! Jesus, shit, you’re crazy! It’s a whore!”

Light as spun silk, toe jabbed into Mac’s bruised side to punctuate every description, “Touch him,” _jab_ , gasp, “look at him, breathe the same air as him, and I’ll bury you alive, Mac Willford. Do I make myself clear?”

Finally having the guts and air to scramble away, Mac stuttered a, “Crystal,” and then, without even a glance in Neil’s direction, bolted.

Andrew Minyard watched him go. Then, he turned his cool Mt. Everest eyes on Neil.

Fingers gently touched his chin. Neil flinched. The hand immediately retracted, but Andrew’s gaze narrowed on Neil’s cheek.

Oh, right.

The scratch.

“Don’t worry,” Neil muttered, voice shakier than he wanted it to be (fuck, but he hated Mac), “you can argue for a discount.”

Those eyes snapped to his, expression blanked so quick Neil hadn’t even noticed it’d  been emoting.

Unsure of what to make of that, he continued with a, “Just take  a picture. It’s not that complicated. Your fancy smart watch comes with a camera, doesn’t it?”

“You knew him?”

“Who, Mac?” Panning through his mental database of reactions to give people that wouldn’t freak them out, Neil settled on a one-shouldered shrug. “Yeah. He’s an old buddy of my dad’s. Real creep, but never failed to show up on time.”

Andrew digested that. He was probably smart enough to pick up on the meaning and all the connecting threads to run with it.

Neil really didn’t care for the look on his face. He’d like to, he decided, get into the car.

Since Andrew was apparently too slow to make the leap, Neil nudged him along with, “Can we go, or what? You waiting for another chance to show off?”

“Didn’t anyone teach you to say thank you,” Andrew replied, “you ungrateful ass.”

Neil breathed a bit easier. That was more like it.

Where and why a businessman knew decent self-defense when he paid for bodyguards, Neil didn’t  know and didn’t ask.  Instead, he shot Andrew a grin, ignored the sharp pull on his cheek, and jauntily sauntered past him to the Maserati. As he slid in, Matt bombarded him with concerned questions while digging in the glove box for a med kit, all of which he waved off with little trouble. When Andrew joined and told him to bandage up before he dripped on the upholstery, it felt good.

Even dirty old Mac couldn’t mar this.

 

* * *

 

 

Of course the first time Andrew pulled his shirt off, he found something to bitch about.

_Who did this?_

_It’s a hard knock life_ , Neil sighed with unashamed exaggeration. _I tripped. Got clipped by a car. Hhm. What else? Oh– Beethoven, my dog, he plays rough._

The night had started so good, which wasn’t something Neil could usually say. The whole day had started well: a gala, as always, but Andrew got fed up with shaking hands hours before dusk and nabbed Neil before sneaking off to the just-as-busy but far-less-attentive kitchens and, from there, down to the crappiest part of the garden. Neil was pretty sure it was where they hauled in trucks full of their fancy foods, but so long as it stayed empty, Andrew didn’t seem to care.

(Andrew, to Neil’s utmost surprise, didn’t care much about place or people. He’d amended his earlier assessment of Andrew’s reasons for picking him up to: _convenient excuse not to have to look at Nigel’s surgically whitened but still too-small teeth_.)

It wasn’t the first time they’d kissed, but it was the first time Andrew actually seemed interested in going further. Neil let him. Fuck, did he let him. It was about time. One of the few clients he’d have actively sought out for a second date, and it’d taken– what, five months? Ridiculous. He’d shifted from thinking Andrew was busted in the head to Neil was busted, that he was just the cheapest or most convenient option. But his price had quadrupled since Andrew’d started being a regular patron, so – that couldn’t be cheap or convenient.

He was just a slow bloomer. Fine. Fine. No problem. So long as this was actually it, no problem at all.

And for a bit of the humid summer night, he’d thought it was. The tie was somewhere in the rose bushes, the jacket somewhere under the rose bushes, vest down his arms and Andrew’s fingers deft on the collared shirt’s buttons, but then he’d gotten that half-off, saw the first of many bruises, and got cold feet.

He was still staring, in fact. The little pinch between his eyebrows and cold, clinical way he traced every purple-to-yellow splotch on his chest, thin red line and old-to-new scars seriously killed the mood.

Neil knocked his head back against a marble pillar, part exasperated and part annoyance, _Come on, babe, what’s the hold up? Need me to walk you through what to do? You know, you don’t even have to do anything if you don’t want, I can take care of it._

It usually worked. Andrew seemed to enjoy back-talk. Neil didn’t mind indulging; it was the most natural persona he’d ever put to use.

Of course, of course, because this night had gone from good to shit in a second flat, it didn’t work.

Andrew wouldn’t quit staring. The scars gave some people pause. Mostly the bullet holes, in truth; he had two to five lines prepared at any time to make them into a light-hearted joke and put the people at ease. But Andrew wasn’t distracted by those, he was distracted by the fingerprints and rock-sized bruises, the rug-burn and knife-thin cuts, the stuff anybody who picked him up should expect. Fuck, he'd met Mac! What had Andrew expected? Anyway, he was a no-name callboy, not actually a fancy escort, no matter how much Andrew dressed him up.

All at once, Neil’s temper flared.

 _Usually when people stare,_ he simpered, voice high and sharp in a way he never, ever would’ve gotten away with at home, _they’re at least complimentary about it._

Andrew’s eyes rose to meet his.

Dread sank a dark, deep hole right through his anger.

Andrew repeated, his thumb pressed into the livid bruise by his clavical until Neil flinched, _Who did this?_

 _Don’t worry_ , Neil tried. _All damages are compensated for with a little extra._

He looked at the circle of red around his left shoulder. 

Yeah, alright, the dislocation had been bad, mostly because it hadn’t been a client, and he’d had to set it himself. It still tingled and throbbed something awful. But Andrew didn’t know that. Andrew didn’t need to know that.

Fuck. The mood was deader than a door nail.

 _I had you carry  in the bags,_ Andrew said.

That just plain didn’t make sense. Neil replied, _So?_

He sent a pointed look to the inflamed joint.

Neil shrugged, abruptly uncomfortable. _It’s fine. It’s nothing._

He knew immediately that wasn’t the right thing to say. It put something ugly into Andrew’s eyes, and Neil knew ugly real well.

That was when the night had went from shit to absolute hell.

They were supposed to stay at the mansion for the weekend while Andrew rubbed elbows, but instead he called in a favor, got them packed onto a private jet, and flew back to Baltimore. He wouldn’t look at Neil, but he got weird with anyone else who looked at Neil, that possessive streak he had coming out in full force (made worse by the plane-ride: he suspected Andrew had a fear of heights, but he didn’t want to bring it up in case it was something sensitive). Neil, for his part, kept his mouth shut and tried very, very hard not to panic.

It worked up until Andrew got them into the back of a monstrous black hummer, Matt surprised but quick to drive them to Neil’s apartment.

Neil tried to focus on the absurdity of Matt being around and not how his heart clogged his throat. Why was Matt even around at midnight? Did he never go home? Did he live near-by? Had he been counting down the days until Andrew grew sick of Neil and dropped him off for good? He and the other staff liked to make bets. They had to have a bet on this. Neil hoped Matt pulled in a decent cut; he personally would’ve been out, since he’d thought _this is it_ since the first Friday.

His street came up. People were definitely going to be looking at the racket a hummer made.

Neil fidgeted with his crisp cuff link. The jacket and tie were somewhere in Andrew’s bags. His shirt was done up, but rumpled.

“Can I at least change?” He muttered, the first thing he’d said since he’d tried to persuade Andrew into staying at the party and been irrevocably shut down.

The reply was a cold, “No.”

He didn’t ask again.

He felt sick. That damn door came up, and Matt rolled to a neat stop. He was going to be sick. Andrew reached around Neil to open his door, and then waited for him to climb out. Neil did. This time, Andrew followed.

“Keep the engine running,” Andrew told Matt, who looked only a smidgen less uncertain than Neil felt. He nodded. “And keep your phone on.” Matt nodded again. Andrew turned to the door and, without a glance to Neil, went for it.

It opened before he knocked. Because this night was in the running for worst of Neil’s life, Lola leaned out, her smile wide and eyes raking over Andrew first, the hummer second, and Neil third.

“Hey, junior,” she said. “So this’s the nice gentleman that’s been taking so good care of you every weekend. Bit early for a return, though. It's, what… Saturday morning? And at a god-awful hour. The kid must’ve really pissed you off. Not that I blame you; he can be an ungrateful brat.”

Neil couldn’t speak. Andrew, apparently, never lost his tongue, as he said, “Where’s Wesninski?”

“You wanna see the boss?” She laughed, loud and long. She had to be high. Still, she managed, “Aw, why not. You’ve been great, what with the rate changes and all. Economy’s in shambles, gas prices are up, so, you know, I just want to reiterate what the boss was saying about how there was no helping it. But, hey, you’re a businessman, you must understand. Yeah, knew you would! You're a good guy, Minyard. Hey, come on in.

"Boss, hey! You got a caller! It’s our favorite regular."

His father wouldn’t have been asleep this early. But he must have been in the midst of a good night, as it took him a while to join them in the foyer.

A good night turned sour, and all Neil’s fault. _He was going to be sick._

Nathan saw who it was and, ever professional, kept his smile as he bid Andrew and Neil into the decadent living room.

It was clear he thought this was the business of an ending. He let Andrew move past him, but he snagged Neil by the (bad, the same, the one he’d pulled too hard four days prior, Neil under his boot and his arm bent back, his) arm and made him stay by the doorway. Lola’s laugh filtered in from the hallway, though she shimmied by once Nathan had Neil where he wanted.

Andrew maybe stared. Maybe. Whatever. Neil wouldn’t look up from the shag carpeting.

“You’ve been great,” Nathan told Andrew. “It’s obvious you have a good head on your shoulders. I mean, look at you. And, honestly? Man to man? Neil’s not the best. He’s got my good looks, but - if you’ll excuse my vulgarity - he’s got shit for brains. Blame his mother.”

Neil had moved from nausea to nothing. He couldn’t get enough air, though he knew he wasn’t moving or gasping. He was just - suffocating. Dying. It was fine.

“What I’m trying to say is, you can do better. And I’ve got better. What are you looking for? Someone taller? Someone smarter? Someone younger? Hey, I don’t judge. It’s all business.”

Andrew said, “Someone younger.”

Nathan smiled and agreed. Neil didn’t need to look up to picture the greed on his face.

“Preferably a boy,” Andrew continued.

“Ooh,” Lola whistled. “Junior, you really did out-grow your charms.”

“Romero!” Nathan called back to the stairs. His fingers around Neil’s arm had tightened to bruising. “Go get Colby, would you? I don’t care if he’s sleeping - tell him he’s got an important guest. Colby’s a good boy, you’ll like him. Everybody does.”

The rate would be higher, he said. Andrew didn’t mind. Nathan continued with: we could negotiate, if you like. Andrew only had so much time on the weekends; he’d like to be done sooner rather than later. Understandable, Nathan replied, very understandable. Just let me put this one to bed.

“I’d rather not be kept waiting.”

The fingers on Neil’s arm clenched harder. Neil barely noticed. “No, no, of course not. And, hey, he’s family. You wouldn’t mind if he’s here for the negotiations.”

Andrew did not mind.

He said he’d rather not wait too long here, either.

Nathan took it gracefully. He offered, “Test-run this weekend, you decide how you feel at the end, we can negotiate, man to man. But the rate for the next twenty-four hours is set.”

Andrew said, “One moment.” He checked his phone.

“None of that here,”  Jovial but sharp. “You’ve been fantastic, and I don’t mean to be rude, but. You must understand.”

Andrew agreed on both accounts, phone disappearing into his pocket.

When he’d arrived and when asked, Colby said he was thirteen. It was a bit of a stretch: he didn’t look a day over ten. His voice hadn’t even began to crack.

That was, Neil supposed, the point.

Leaving him in the living with a smile sharp as a knife, Nathan and Lola saw them to the door. Colby was in awe of Andrew’s clothing. Neil was aware of his own borrowed clothing, and how he wouldn’t be able to give it back. He was also aware he had until Andrew left the door to keep his arm in his socket, or the shoes on his feet, or the piece of a life he’d never reach on his own.

(His mother had tried. Now his mother was gone for good, to a better or worse or nothing-at-all place.)

Nathan opened the door for his esteemed guest.

The people in the neighborhood were definitely, definitely awake: their street, after all, had been flooded with police.

Red and blue flickered through the hallway, and the cops’ orders for Nathan and Lola swiftly following. Andrew had nothing to worry about from them: rich, white and with a face plastered on every billboard, he had to be the one to call them. He had nothing to worry about.

Neil heard Colby start crying. He heard no scuffles and no fight.

He heard Nathan snarl, _You have nothing on me._

He distantly registered Andrew shouldering by police to find him, saying he was a prime witness, a friend, and in need of space. His driver and associates would attest; Andrew had never touched him. He’d been investigating privately into Nathan’s operation for months. He had a recording of the exchange on his phone. Neil’s body had evidence of extensive abuse.

(His intent in buying Neil was a lie, the first and only Neil had ever heard him tell.)

Then he backed the police up through sheer force of personality and unspoken threat, providing Neil the space to finally, finally begin grasping what was happening.

The first thing he could think of saying was, “Where am I supposed to go?”

“It’s not Sunday yet,” Andrew informed him, his body blocking the uniformed officers flushing out the building, “you’re still on my time.”

“I–”

“I paid you,” Andrew reminded him.  "Not Wesninski.“

 _Oh,_ Neil thought.

"I have a conference in Montreal,” Andrew mentioned.

“And an extra ticket?”

“If you’d like.”

Neil didn’t have much left in him to agree to anything, but he managed, “Maybe.”

“You’ll think about it?” It was almost amused.

Neil took his first deep breath. “Yeah. I’ll think about it.”

(The maybe became a certainty.)

 

* * *

 

 

( _It was a start._ )

 

* * *

 

 

Their first kiss happened after Neil's second mistake.

He preferred the term fuck up. It fit better. To make use of fancy jargon, it illuminated the situation between Andrew Minyard and (now legally) Neil Josten.

The first fuck up came on the first morning after Neil moved into Andrew's predictably expansive mansion. He'd been given his own roomy room, full of impersonal but luxurious objects (including the most comfortable bed Neil had ever slept on, and after weeks upon weeks of traveling with Minyard, that was saying something). He was told to do what he wanted with himself; after his father's trial finished, he was free to go, but before that, Andrew needed him on hand.

Which. Sure. He knew what that meant. The kisses before, the interrupted night in the garden, his healing skin. Combined, he knew exactly what 'on hand' meant.

At least, he'd thought he known what that meant.

He'd slept, woken, showered, dressed in perfectly respectable clothes that Andrew had purchased, and after much debate on if he could get away with crawling back into the very comfortable, Queen sized bed, caught a whiff of frying eggs, and convinced himself to wander out.

To his surprise, Andrew was the one cooking. In a rumpled grey t-shirt and loose black sweats, Andrew scrambling eggs on a black top stove was  probably the softest and most normal Neil had ever seen the man.

(If his mind hadn't scratched to the edge of _now what?_ since Andrew had called the cops on his father, he might've appreciated the picture. If he'd ever remembered appreciating the look of someone before, he might've recognized the possibility.)

Now, taking initiative was not on Neil's typical to-do list. But Andrew had given him a room and promised him protection and possibly put his father away in jail. Letting all that go without paying back what he could put a squirmy, discomforting feeling in Neil's belly. It wasn't like he had money to offer (not that Andrew needed any) or, really, anything else, and anyway, it was normal, wasn't it, to see the person you lived with cooking first thing in the morning and move to wrap your arms around their waist. Television had taught Neil it was fairly normal.

Television hadn't consulted Andrew Minyard, obviously, because the simple act resulted in an elbow driving into Neil's stomach and a heel crushing down on his foot. He doubled back and doubled over, more surprised than anything; Andrew spun around, frying pan up and a few bits of eggs tumbling sadly to the ground.

"Don't," Andrew stated in a voice that shriveled up every thought in Neil's head, "ever do that again."

Avoiding his eyes and holding otherwise still, Neil nodded to the floor.

After a moment, Andrew went back to cooking (and asked what Neil would like, to which he said, anything). Neil didn't ask why. It was obvious: Neil had fucked up.

The first fuck up didn't lead to the second one, but in hindsight, Neil should've figured it out. He'd been with Andrew long enough given all the months before and now six days living with him.

There was a dinner party Andrew couldn't cancel even with - or especially because of - the news of him busting a human trafficking ring (which Neil thought was a much too impressive term for what his father had actually run). Andrew wanted him there. He didn't ask Neil to do much, which meant Neil scrambled for the opportunity to do this. Every day spent sitting around doing nothing made reality seem more and more surreal. He'd do anything for a distraction; moreover, he'd do anything to know what Andrew wanted.

Neil sat beside Andrew and did what he'd been born to do. Smile, pay attention to guests but pay especial attention to Andrew, and make his client look good. Easy peasy.

It should've been. But something, probably tied to the fact he wasn't here for money, niggled at him. It gnawed at the back of his brain the whole evening, scratching cold claws down his spine, giving him goosebumps and making his teeth want to chatter.

A lull came where the focus turned to Nicky, Andrew's sociable cousin and the gathered people's second target of attention. Neil, having worked himself into a cold sweat and knowing he had but unable to stop it, racked his brain for something to do. Andrew hadn't demanded anything from him the whole time he'd been in the mansion. He must have been fielding police questions for Neil, too, after his annoyingly obvious discomfort with the cops. Some part of him, no matter how pretty he thought Neil was, must have been livid at having to take on a charity case.

He needed to _do something._

_Be grateful, you little shit._

(That was his father, not--)

So, Neil did what most people liked and used the excuse of reaching for the salt to place his hand on Andrew's knee. After he leaned back, he left his hand.

That went fine. Andrew gave him a glance but didn't say no.

Bolstered, Neil slid his hand up, though he kept his head turned to Nicky.

Quick as lightning, an iron grip caught his wrist.

Leaning close, Andrew whispered in his ear, breath raising the hairs on the back of his neck: "Let's keep our hands to ourselves, shall we?"

Fuck up number two.

Three strikes and he'd be out.

Condemning himself to quiet break downs in the bedroom Andrew never visited, he kept his hands, eyes and thoughts to himself.

Andrew, he learned, worked day in and day out. Neil wasn't sure why he kept the mansion: on the rare occasions he was home, he locked himself in the study, taking conference call after conference call. However, as Neil rose at the same time every morning, he made a point of eating breakfast with Neil.

A lightning strike of clarity in the midst of another silent eggs-and-toast taken on the patio made Neil realize the root of the issue: he liked Andrew. Beyond the money and on top of the rough, steady, honest exterior, he liked how sunlight caught in Andrew's blond hair. He liked his arms, the curve of a toned bicep and splay of his fingers. He liked the cut of his waist, in a suit jacket but especially in a rumpled collared shirt. He liked the idea of Andrew pressing him into his plush bed. At least, he thought he did.

As he caught himself watching the bob of his Adam's apple as he drank his overly sugared coffee, he didn't think he was wrong about what he thought.

He wanted Andrew, but Andrew didn't want him.

That was a problem. A big problem.

Soon the trial would come. He needed to find a place to stay afterward; Andrew couldn't possibly want to keep feeding a leech that was no longer so illicit as to be enticing.

Days after he had decided this, Andrew came to him, his voice cool but eyes narrowed. "Have you been calling Reynolds?"

Neil was his own person now. He kept telling himself that as he replied, airily, "Yeah. You should've gotten to know her. She's really funny, especially about the shit her ex gets up to. Or, he was her ex last week; they have this off-on thing going on."

"She e-mailed me," he replied, tone and gaze unwavering, "asking if it would be an imposition if she propositioned you."

Neil feigned surprise. "She phrased it like that? Fancy. Last I heard, she just said she wouldn't mind getting drinks some time."

Andrew stared at him.

He stared back, counted to ten in his head, and then turned his attention back to the television. The news was on - the only thing that would have at least vaguely relevant information.

"I have no intention of becoming your pimp," Andrew said.

"Okay." He waited another ten seconds. Then, gaze sliding to the doorway: "Sorry. Are you still here?"

"If you want to leave, you can."

Neil kept his temper and his fear in check. The two were naturally interwoven. It took a precious second that Andrew undoubtedly caught. "Huh. That wasn't the tune you sang a few weeks ago."

"I don't think you want to leave." His head tilted, his finger tapping on his hip. "But I'm not a mind reader, and I won't have my time wasted. Tell me the truth: are you going to stay?"

"Until the trial," Neil immediately replied. The truth slid off easier than he expected.

"And after that?"

This was the first time there had been talk of an after that. Neil felt himself still, every piece of him hyper-aware of how he sat (casually, on Andrew's couch) and what he wore (casual, bought with Andrew's wallet).

Unconsciously, he licked his lips. Consciously, he recognized that Andrew's eyes did not stray from his.

This was serious.

It felt serious. A weight on his chest and the world on his shoulders. Andrew, extending trust and a-- olive branch, or something like it.

After a long, long time, Neil sifted through truths and half-truths and lies and found the origin in: "I'd like to stay."

Andrew nodded.

He said, "Then you will." As if it were that easy.

Maybe in the world of Andrew Minyard, it was that easy. In the world of Neil Josten, formerly Nathaniel Wesninski, it was-- everything, packed into three little words. Condensed further, into one: _stay._

"Why?" He had to ask. He didn't mean to ask, but he needed to know. He couldn't stay if it meant wondering what he was meant to do for the rest of his life - even if he liked it here, even if he liked every aspect of Andrew Minyard, he knew he would not withstand the uncertainty.

"If you left," Andrew intoned, his eyes heavier than his words, "who else would insult Riko Moriyama where he couldn't hear with me?"

Neil snorted, the pressure around his heart lessening.

Andrew watched him a moment longer, not smiling but not frowning. After a few seconds, he nodded again, as if that settled that, and retreated from the living room.

Neil, in his absence, sunk further into the couch and buried himself, sightless and deaf, in the news.

The next morning was scrambled eggs and toast. The sun caught in Andrew's blond hair. He added too much sugar to his coffee, and drank it with his head tipped back, pale fingers stretched around the black mug. On the other side of the table, Neil followed every movement, and thought maybe he could stay for, if not forever, a long while.

At the end, they cleaned up the dishes together. Even billionaires had to load dishes, apparently.

"Your washing machine's got more tech than the average person's computer," Neil quipped, because it was an easy target and he felt too good not to take it.

"If you press that button," a hand reached around him to point, Andrew stepping neatly into his space, "it's a direct line to Congress."

"How ignorant do you think I am? You wouldn't settle for less than the White House."

He felt good enough not to over-analyze the proximity. His tone was rare, though decreasingly so: open and, arguably, warm.

Andrew's gaze caught his, his eyebrows relaxing. The same tell, Neil proudly recognized, as when he successfully roasted Riko.

"I could kiss you," Andrew solemnly informed him.

"You should," Neil solemnly replied.

Andrew did.

Neil was not as surprised as he should have been.


	2. YEARS DOWN THE LINE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a dose of angst as much as a snapshot into the future. more of a side snippet than a continuation. take it as you will.
> 
>  **WARNING** for abuse of all sorts. Technically, I suppose this should be rated as **explicit** for violence and sex.

It wasn’t his fault.

Neil told himself that again, and again, and again.

It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault.

He told himself that again and again and again until he remembered whom he meant.

“It isn’t your fault.”

Andrew, standing across the room, told him to shut up.

“I told you it was fine.” He bit off, _and it is._ Andrew had not reacted well to being lied to in bed, however small the lie was.

This was not a small lie. That had not been a small lie.

The real trick was that it hadn’t been a lie.

A year and a half. That was how long it took to convince Andrew he wanted him. A year and a half of starts and stops, of quiet mornings and quiet nights, of fingers intertwined and kisses and _keep your hands above the collar._

Eighteen months passed incredibly quickly. A blink, and the best months of Neil’s life had gone by.

The thing was: Andrew didn’t trust Neil’s restraint. That was fair, as Neil struggled to read Andrew’s wants, though he imagined he had a fine grasp of his needs.

Andrew’s favored bartender Roland had jokingly gifted them with padded handcuffs one Christmas. They collected dust until Andrew accepted what Neil asked for; on Andrew’s tension, Neil recalled the handcuffs, and Andrew agreed to that, as well. They’d wanted it - they’d wanted the moment, the night, together. They’d wanted it enough. That had been what mattered.

It had helped. It had visibly helped, Neil knew it had, they’d at last joked again, air returned to the evening and the room and sure, they hadn’t used anything like it before, Andrew was the definition of vanilla from his skin to his tastes, but _it had helped._

Hands cuffed to the headboard, Neil had enjoyed every inch Andrew covered. Warm breath on his throat, hands smoothing down his chest. A spine arched off the bed, a little breathless laugh; Andrew pressed closer, slotted himself between Neil’s legs, slow and gentle and so very, very careful.

Neil hadn’t had a panic attack during a session since he was thirteen.

(With Andrew, it wasn’t supposed to be a session.)

Of course he’d known exactly when his mentality took a turn for the worse. Even a year and some later, he recognized the signs; similarly, he recalled how to fend them off until he had a moment alone.

Only this time - maybe because it had been so long - it hadn’t abated. Hands gripped his hips. Nails dug in. Lips on his. The aftertaste of smoke. Choking smoke. He pulled his hands. Chains rattled. Andrew rolled his hips, drove closer, Neil thought, _no, no, no, please,_ laughter against his mouth, hands holding him down, _come on, baby, this isn’t so bad, why are you squirming so much,_ hands holding his mouth close around a cloud of smoke, fingers pinching his nose shut. Another voice said, _hey, I got you something,_ heat near his neck, _make sure he doesn’t scream,_ cigarettes put out on his skin. He couldn’t breathe. They wouldn’t stop touching him, they wouldn’t give him space, he couldn’t breathe.

Laughter. Chains rattled.

_It’s a necklace! One of a kind, made just for my pretty boy._

“Neil? Neil. You’re safe. No one’s touching you.”

He tried to curl up. It, amazingly, worked.

“Neil.”

In great, gulping gasps, Neil came back to himself. He was curled in silk sheets. The cream room, open and wide, was well lit and soft. Andrew, pants pulled up and voice a steady litany of safety.

Neil recognized him first. He recognized the wetness on his own face next.

There would be no recovering the night from this. He wasn’t so far gone he didn’t know that. Old habits made him entreat Andrew anyway, starting with apologies (shot down) and moving on to platitudes (shut down). Finally, embarrassment hit him like a Mac truck, turning his head to bury his face in a pillow.

He wasn’t sure when Andrew had unlocked the cuffs or when he’d gotten across the room. Equally so, he didn’t understand why Andrew stayed.

He even said, “I can leave.”

But Neil didn’t want him to go, and he couldn’t bring himself to say so. Months ago, Andrew had asked him to stay. Neil couldn’t work up the guts to return the favor out loud, but he felt it with every fiber of his being.

They’d worked up to this for months. Fuck. Andrew had a — thing about sex, Neil didn’t fully understand it. As long as Andrew didn’t want to talk about it, Neil wouldn’t pry farther than a question here and there, because it didn’t actually matter, they worked around whatever it was with no problems. Neil accommodated in nighttime as much as Andrew did in the daylight. It worked. It had worked.

These cuffs had not worked. But if not, ugh, fuck. No. He’d wanted this, he really had. He still did. If Andrew would stop being such a–

Bad thinking. Very bad.

“I never told you about Cass,” Andrew said.

Neil had long stopped crying, but he couldn’t look up.

Still on the opposite side of the room, Andrew continued with, “I want to. Tell you.”

“It may take a while?”

Silence. Neil looked up to see Andrew’s caution. It was something to focus on outside of his failure, a line to grasp in dark waters.

It took time, but they made it work.


End file.
